


Cry Uncle

by determamfidd



Series: Sansûkh: The Appendices [4]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Hero-worship, Tough times after the fall of Erebor, Uncle-nephew feels, bb!Gimli
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-07
Updated: 2013-10-07
Packaged: 2017-12-28 16:34:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/994121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/determamfidd/pseuds/determamfidd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His uncle is his hero, and always has been. </p><p>It's just hard sometimes. You know, when he's never there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cry Uncle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notanightlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notanightlight/gifts), [fuckthisimgoingtoerebor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuckthisimgoingtoerebor/gifts).



> Part 4 of **_the Appendices._**  
>  (short gift-fics set in the Sansûkh universe.)
> 
> This one is for the diabolical team of [notanightlight](http://notanightlight.tumblr.com) and [fuckthisimgoingtoerebor](http://fuckthisimgoingtoerebor.tumblr.com), and was originally posted on [my tumblr](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com/post/63064002735/sansukh-side-fic-cry-uncle). I hope you enjoy.

Thorin did not go near the house that day, nor even through the night. He spent all his hours in his smithy, trying not to think of his baby sister, steely and dark-eyed and suffering.

It was as much for Víli’s protection as his own that he stayed away. If he had caught his brother-in-law’s eyes over his sister’s agonised face, he could not have said what he would do.

The steel would not heat evenly, and it would warp beyond use. Thorin couldn’t pay attention to what his hands were doing. Balin had poked his head through the door at one point, but a few snarled words had sent him away. Now everyone was giving their exiled King a very wide berth.

He had already lost his brother. He could not bury another sibling.

(Ah, but then, they had never buried Frerin. He had burned.)

Shouts from down the passageways made him stir from his dark thoughts, but as no one came to disturb him he soon let them drift into the background once more. He quenched the steel, and then lifted it to his eyes. Yes, it had warped. No, he could not bring himself to care.

They had so few Dwarrowdams, and they did not bear nor bring forth easily. It was no surprise that many families were small. Thorin’s own family had been considered remarkably large, with three children in one generation. He could only pray that their mother’s strength in this had passed to Dís.

It was not uncommon for Dwarrowdams to die in childbed.

He sat and held the cooling steel in his hands. The red-hot core of it radiated out underneath the sullen grey exterior, not yet cooled by the water or frigid southern air. If Dís were still a princess she would have been tended by the finest physicians, he thought bitterly. She would have had the best of care and the choicest of cuts of meat, the ones known to help a Dwarrowdam and give her strength. She would have been in a room made for her privacy and comfort, and every attention would have been given her.

Here in Ered Luin, Dís would bring forth the next generation of the Line of Durin in a hastily-cleaned barracks that still showed the signs of moss upon the walls, with bales of straw covered by a blanket for her bed, and her only attendants were an old healer and her husband.

Someone cleared their throat, and Thorin looked up. “Is she all right?” he croaked.

It was Dwalin, and he was grinning. “I should say, the whole east quarter could hear her swearing. You have a nephew, cousin.”

Thorin stared at him for a moment, and then he stood. “A nephew,” he said, and an unfamiliar sensation began around his mouth. “I am an uncle.”

“You are,” said Dwalin, clapping his back. Then the warrior peered at him closely. “What’s that happening around your mouth?”

“I don’t know,” Thorin said truthfully.

“Durin’s balls,” Dwalin said, and stared at him in shock. “You’re… are you _smiling?”_

“Nonsense,” Thorin scoffed, but he brought up his hand to touch his mouth anyway.

His lips were curved up the smallest amount.

…

_“My uncle says…”_

_…_

_“My uncle said…”_

_…_

_“My uncle used to say…”_

…

Mizim was exhausted and it was not over yet. Óin mopped at her forehead, and then mopped at his own. “Hold on there, lassie,” he said absentmindedly, and he ducked out of sight for a moment.

“TO WHAT?” she snarled. “Óin, you had best give me some good news…”

“The good news is that you’re definitely ready to push,” he told her, and smiled as reassuringly as he could. Mizim must never know that her brother-in-law had never delivered a child before.

“Oh, thank Mahal,” she groaned, and her head fell back. Her hands clenched around the arms of the birthing chair, and she panted heavily, her skin dotted with sweat.

“So, uh. Bear down on the next one,” Óin added unnecessarily, and he fumbled for his little bottle of water. Taking a swig, he wished he had had the presence of mind to replace it with something a bit stronger.

“Where in Durin’s cursed name is Glóin?” she managed, before her head flopped forward and the next contraction started. Óin dropped his flask and stepped forward, bracing her back.

“That’s it,” he said, as soothingly as he could. “Push, now.”

“I am, I am!” she grated, and a strangled sound escaped her before the contraction released her from its grip. “Oh Valar, how long…”

“Not as long, now that you can push,” he said, and mopped at her face again. Mizim’s cheeks were blotched and her skin waxy, her eyes huge and luminous. Her renowned beauty was both amplified and utterly consumed by her pain.

“Pushing is a relief, it is so good to have something to _do_ instead of lie there and endure _,_ ” she puffed, and she shuddered for a moment. “Oh no, not again…”

“Very close now,” he said encouragingly, and ducked away from her for a quick look. “Yes, this or the next should bring the head! Mizim, give it all you’ve got!”

“I gave it all I had six hours ago, you…!” she snarled, and then a high whine built in her throat. Óin carefully felt over her belly. Yes, the baby had turned into the correct position. Thank Mahal. He didn’t want to _think_ about how things could have gone had it decided to make things dramatic.

The door slammed open, and Glóin skidded in, his armour dinted and his braids askew. “Mizim, I…” he began, and then he gaped at his labouring wife.

“Don’t just stand there, you hairy cretin!” Mizim roared. “ _Do something!”_

Glóin stood, openmouthed and as lost as Óin had ever seen him. “Hold her hand, brace her back,” he said, standing and fixing his brother with a stern glare. “Baby’s nearly here, nadad – shape up!”

“Óin, you’re my…unh…. favourite from now on,” Mizim panted, and she hit Glóin hard in the chest when he gingerly stepped forward to support her. “You great idiot, going on patrol at this time!”

“Well…” he said helplessly.

“Not the time,” Óin said, trying to inject as much Healer’s authority into his voice as possible. “Mizim, head’s nearly clear. The next push should do it.”

“Oh Mahal save me,” she gasped, and then she let out a choked cry as the next contraction built, her belly turning hard as steel and her arms quivering. “Definitely… ah! Your damned child, with your fat thoughtless head… ah!!”

“That’s it!” Óin said, and cradled the wet head as gently as he could. “Now, use this one! Mizim, you’re nearly done, it’s nearly over! Push!”

“I _AM!”_ she shrieked, and Glóin winced as her fingers dug into his forearms. Swearing and cursing, Mizim bore down once more, her body shaking with fatigue. A small wet feebly-squirming something landed in Óin’s hands, and he blinked at it for a moment.

“Is it all right? Is Mizim all right?” Glóin said anxiously, holding Mizim’s head against his chest. Her face was grey and wan with exhaustion and pain.

“Fine,” Óin said absently, and on automatic he performed the tasks he had been taught. Suction the baby’s mouth and nose, tie off the cord, clean him up ( _him_! A nephew!) and wrap him tightly but not too tightly. The minute the baby’s nose was clear of fluid his little eyes fluttered, his chest filled, and a thin roar filled the room.

“What is it?” Mizim croaked, lifting her head.

“A boy,” Óin said, and his nephew blinked his eyes again and let out another cross-sounding holler. “A strong, heavy boy!”

“A boy!” Glóin repeated, and a huge formless joy began to build in his face. “Listen to that yell!”

“Aye, a good set o’ lungs,” Óin said, and smiled down at the baby. “Here, Mizim, hold your son. You worked hard for him, after all.”

Her hands reached out and Óin laid the baby in them. Or at least that was the intent.

A great indignant shout came from near their feet.

“Whoops,” Óin blurted, and he bent faster than lightning and picked up the baby from the straw-covered floor. “Nobody saw that, nothin’ happened.”

“Did you just _drop my baby?”_ Mizim said in a dangerous tone, her tired eyes suddenly alight.

“Nope, ahaha,” Óin said, his voice high and a little too cheerful. “Here he is, good as new. No droppin’ babbies here, absolutely not. Take him, I’ve got to sort you out now.”

She glared at him, but it soon faded when her son was passed into her arms safely at last. Óin busied himself cleaning up Mizim and preparing for the afterbirth, and occasionally glanced up at the new parents. Glóin looked as though he could fly, and Mizim had tears in her eyes.

“Hello, precious gem,” she said gently, and stroked the baby’s fine, downy red hair. “Glóin, your hair!”

“Your eyes,” he whispered. “An’ that’s a Broadbeam nose.”

“He’s so beautiful,” she said, and smiled brokenly. “Made quite an entrance, didn’t you?”

“Aye, he’s a little star, this one,” Glóin said, and touched the baby’s cheek with his huge and rough forefinger.

Óin paused in his work to look at them, smiling. “Uncle Óin,” he said to himself. “I like the sound o’ that.”

…

His nephews learn quickly. Fíli learns to be watchful, and Kíli learns to be merry.

Thorin teaches them as best he can, and hates that he can never give them more.

…

It was Bombur who came, limping and panting, to Gimli’s workshop. “It’s begun!” was all he said, and Gimli’s heart lurched.

“Let’s go,” he said, and dropped the crystal he had been tinkering with. He dimly heard it skitter across the floor, but paid it no mind as he followed his brother-in-law through the tunnels of restored Erebor.

“Any news?” he said tightly.

“Not as yet,” Bombur puffed, his staff clicking against the stone. “Healer Forin is in charge.”

“I wish my uncle was still here,” Gimli sighed, and he bit down upon his lip.

“Well, Forin’s not Óin, but he’ll do a fine job,” Bombur said reassuringly.

“They stayed at Bofur and Gimrís’ house?”

“They did,” said Bombur, and he grunted as he hauled his bad leg up a stair. “Damned thing!”

Gimli, watching, said nothing. It was becoming more and more apparent that Bombur would soon need to be confined to a chair to move any distance greater than his apartments, but the large and jolly Dwarf would not appreciate the comment.

“How long did yours take?” was what he said instead, and Bombur hummed a little in thought.

“Well, the longest was Barur, but the hardest one was Barís. The first always is.”

“Uncle Óin never said if my mother had trouble,” Gimli said anxiously, and Bombur patted his shoulder.

“Now, now. Gimrís is a strong lass. She’ll do well.”

“Aye, she wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to mock me further,” said Gimli, and he swallowed down the freezing fear for his sister.

“Don’t be like that,” Bombur said, and he leaned on Gimli’s shoulder as they rounded a corner. “Bofur and Bifur always used to fret as well, an’ Alrís would just tell ‘em to pipe down and cheer up, she’s not made o’ glass. Just think! At the end of the day, your sister will be a mother, an’ my brother will be a father, an’ you and I will be uncles!”

Gimli lifted an eyebrow. “My sister is terrifying enough without a maternal instinct.”

“You should see Alrís when I haven’t cleaned away the kitchen proper-like,” Bombur nodded, and the two smiled at each other.

And then the brass-bound door that led to Bofur and Gimrís’ rooms was before them, and Gimli bit upon his lip again and knocked.

His mother answered the door, her pale hair fraying around the edges and her mouth tight. “In you come,” Mizim said tersely the minute she saw them. “Wait in the kitchen.”

Gimli caught his mother’s sleeve. “How is she?”

“How d’you think she is?” Mizim snapped, but she stroked Gimli’s wild red hair even as she said it. Gimli wrapped his thick arms around his mother for a moment, and for a split second Mizim looked old, and frightened. A high cry came from the next room, and she flinched in Gimli’s embrace.

“Come on,” Bombur said, and he began to limp towards the kitchen. “We’re only in the way here. We’ll just wait an’ be here for them, that’s all we can do.”

Gimli followed, his head empty and an awful hollow feeling in his chest.

The hours that came after were never very clear to him when he later tried to recall them. He remembered drinking a cup of some strong-spiced tea, and he began to whittle (though he had never been very good at it) to pass the time as his sister’s cries and shouts rang through the good, sweet stone of Erebor. At one stage she swore loudly and there was the sound of tinkling glass, and he glanced up to see Bofur in the kitchen doorway. His face was very pale and there were dark hollows under his eyes.

“Gimrís?” he said, standing.

Bofur rubbed at his mouth, mussing his moustache. Then he swallowed. “It’s not going well,” he said in a voice that was barely there. “The baby’s upside down.”

Bombur swore and hauled himself to his feet, crossing to his brother and taking his shoulders in his hands. “Now, you know that don’t mean the end o’ the world,” he said firmly. “Two o’ mine were breech, and Alrís is fine an’ so are they.”

“It weren’t her first, though,” Bofur said, and he leaned his forehead against Bombur’s, pressing his eyes shut tightly. “Nadad, I’m so worried. She’s gettin’ weak.”

Gimli’s whole body felt doused with ice water, but he made himself snort loudly. “Gimrís? Weak?” he said, as jovially as he could. “My sister is made of steel and old oak! She could curse the braids off Durin himself! I know she will be fine, and the little one as well. She’d spit in the eye of any who said otherwise!”

Bofur’s mouth curled into a smile, almost as though he were fighting it. “Aye, I suppose.”

The fear was so very cold, but Gimli lifted his head proudly. “Tell her I’m thinkin’ of adding some new decorations to her knives. An asses’ head on each handle, that’d suit her well. Go on!”

Bofur actually laughed, and then he disappeared. Seconds later there was an angry screech, and a barrage of swearing that had Gimli chuckling into his beard.

“That might have worked,” Bombur murmured.

“Let’s hope,” Gimli said, and he forced a grin. “She won’t let that pass without taking her revenge!”

The seconds ticked by, and then the minutes, and then it was another hour. Bombur dozed, Gimli whittled, and then the menfolk were joined in the kitchen by Glóin. He gave his son an affectionate cuff around the head, his great hands sliding through Gimli’s braids. “You look a fright,” he said, his face absent and worried.

“You don’t exactly look a mine o’ diamonds either, Dad,” Gimli said. “Been fourteen hours so far, they tell us.”

“Ach,” Glóin said, and he sighed, a long, drawn-out breath full of anxiety. “Well, I suppose we’re doing all we may, inùdoy.”

“Come on, there’s tea,” said Bombur, puttering around the kitchen.

“I could do with somethin’ a little stronger, t’ be honest,” Glóin muttered, but he sat down and accepted the hot cup anyway.

The day turned to night, and silence fell upon them. Gimli sat and tried not to listen to his sister’s cries growing weaker and fainter. Bofur’s voice and the soft words of the healer punctuated her sobs.

Then her cries strengthened to nearly a shriek, and all three of the Dwarrows stood, eyes wide and white. Silence fell again, thick and suffocating as a cloak.

“Gimrís,” breathed Glóin. Gimli fumbled for his father’s hand, and upon finding it he held on tightly.

Footsteps sounded in the hall, and Gimli’s breath caught. His pulse pounded.

The door opened slowly, and Bofur stood there with a blanket-wrapped bundle in his hands, beaming brighter than the sun. “Gimrís is gonna kill you when she’s back on her feet,” he said to Gimli.

“Small price to pay,” he said, staring at the tuft of red hair that poked out of the blanket. “Is she…?”

“Might take some time,” Bofur said, and his smile turned a little worried. “There’s some damage done, but Forin says she’ll heal. She’s young yet.”

Gimli sagged, and then his eye was caught by his father, moving towards the bundle with a foolishly soft look in his eyes. Bofur shifted the baby in his arms. “Here, Glóin. Come meet your grandson.”

“Ach!” Glóin breathed in sheer wonder as he took the baby in his huge hands. “He’s a solid one! Oh, look, the hair again – but Bofur, that’s your nose if ever I saw it!”

Mizim appeared behind Bofur, wiping her hands down with a towel. “He looks exactly as Gimli did, if a bit darker,” she said fondly. “Certainly worried us there for a moment, didn’t you, little one? I fully expect him to be a very reluctant riser in the mornings after that display.”

“He’ll be whatever he wants,” said Bofur, looking down at his son with eyes that shone like stars. “We have our future back, an’ he’ll be part of it.”

“Here, Gimli,” said Glóin, and he turned carefully to hold out the little bundle. “Hold your nephew.”

Gimli’s hands extended automatically, and he found himself staring into a small, slightly-squashed face with sleepy eyes and a red flush along the cheeks. The baby was heavier than he had anticipated, and solid, with the warm weight of living flesh. “Hello,” he said stupidly, for lack of anything better to say.

The baby yawned and then wriggled, before a tiny arm made it out of the binding and waved erratically. Then it fastened in Gimli’s beard and the impossibly small fingers tangled there.

And with a twist, those tiny fingers reached out and utterly claimed Gimli’s heart.

…

His nephew learns quickly. Gimli is clever and brash and strong and brave.

Óin teaches him what he knows, and hopes it will be enough.

…

“Uncle! Uncle!”

Thorin looked up from the last reports of the food supplies. They did not have enough to get through the winter. He had sent every able-bodied Dwarf into the lands of Men to scrape together what they could through their work, but many looked upon them with suspicion and distrust. Dwalin had been run out of town (though that may have been more about the tattoos and bristling weapons than any general fear of Dwarves).

He despised this. They should not have to beg for the scraps that Men threw them. They should not have to futilely pick at worked-out mines and substandard gemstones. They should not be forced to mend rakes and ploughs and scythes made of poor-quality steel.

He _despised_ this.

A small body slammed into his, and his hands came up to cradle the soft blond head of his nephew. “Fíli, what have I told you about running in here,” he began to say, but Fíli’s high excited voice spoke straight over his.

“Papa took me outside, and do you know what we saw? It was big as a mountain, uncle Thorin, bigger even!”

He sat back in his chair, Fíli kneeling upon his legs. “What did you see?”

“It was a _deer,_ ” said Fíli with relish. “It had all spikes on his head, and Papa said we could eat him but I cried and said we shouldn’t.”

Thorin frowned, his lips tight. “Fíli, we cannot pass up any food. Venison could…”

“He was real big,” Fíli carried on, and he investigated the heavy clasp at the end of Thorin’s braid with curious eyes. “Real fast too. I think I’d like to be a deer and run fast. Can you run as fast as a deer, uncle Thorin?”

“No,” Thorin said, and sighed. “Fíli, unday, you should know by now that we need all the food we can get, and letting a deer go free because you think him… impressive is not going to feed your mother or brother.”

Fíli looked up at him, large blue eyes wet and trusting. “But he made me think of _you.”_

Thorin was speechless.

“I couldn’t eat a deer that made me think of you,” Fíli continued, and he buried his small, squirmy, warm little body against Thorin’s, his golden head tucking beneath Thorin’s chin. He smelled like every little boy ever born, most likely: of dirt and sweat and unmentionable things, and definitely overdue for bathing. Thorin clasped him close. “He was all tall and big and he looked angry, but he was all knobbly and stuff too.”

“I think you mean noble,” said Thorin weakly.

“Do I? Well, he was knobbly too. He had a lot of spikes on his head.”

“Yes.” Thorin stared up at the reports. “You said.”

“Oh, right.” Fíli yawned and then snuggled closer. “Anyway, Papa got out his bow and I began to cry. He looked all sad too - the deer I mean. I guess there’s not much food for deers or Dwarves both.”

Thorin brought his hand up and carded his fingers through Fíli’s hair, sifting gently. “No, I suppose not, namadul.”

“He ran away when he heard me crying. Wish I could run real fast. I could get us all the food ever, if I was as fast as a deer, and you’d never be sad again.” Yawning once more, Fíli’s limbs relaxed and in two or less seconds, the dwarfling was sound asleep.

Thorin sat and held him tightly, and hated himself for still wishing that Víli had shot the damned deer.

…

His nephew learns quickly. Gimizh is full of fire and imagination and soaring, audacious plans for the future.

Gimli tells him he loves him, and lets Gimizh teach him in return.

…

“Now, repeat what I just told you.”

Gimli drew himself up to his fullest height (which was not very impressive, to tell the truth) and began to recite, “don’t wander away. Don’t touch the miner’s tools. Don’t… uh…”

“Go near any mineshafts,” Óin said sternly, and he tugged the little boy’s braids gently. “What else?”

“Stay close?” Gimli squinted up at him hopefully.

“Aye, an’ do exactly as I say without asking any questions. Mines are dangerous, lad, an’ your Mum and Dad will have my hide if anything should happen to you.”

Gimli grinned mischievously. “Dad will use his shouty voice on you.”

“Aye, he would, an’ for once I would be scared o’ my younger brother.” Óin raised his eyebrows meaningfully. “Now, trot along, akhûnîth. Are you excited?”

“Yes!” Gimli bounced a little on his toes, but waited obediently as Óin gathered his bag and his instruments. “I’ve never been in any of the mines, but Fíli an’ Kíli have and they say it’s _haunted_!”

Óin snorted. “Haunted? By who?”

“All them ole Broadbeams that fell into the sea,” Gimli said, his feet pittering as he followed his uncle through the tunnels of Ered Luin. “Kíli says they can reach out an’ _touch_ you and that’s what makes the miners fall off their ledges.”

Óin shook his head. “Boys an’ their imaginations,” he murmured.

“I’m not afraid of stupid ole ghosts, though,” Gimli declared staunchly, his little chest puffing out. “I’ll fight them good. I’ll protect you, Uncle Óin!”

Óin bit down on the inside of his lip, hard. “I appreciate that, me fine little warrior. Come on now, here’s the entrance. Mind your feet! Sometimes the debris is easy to trip on.”

Gimli immediately looked down, watching his little boots with a glower of concentration. Óin allowed himself to smile at the cross little face for a second, before he reached out and took Gimli’s shoulder. “Here, lad,” he said gently. “You just hold onto me.”

Gimli’s strong little hand rose and gripped Óin’s tightly. “Yes, Uncle,” he mumbled, though he still watched his feet moving.

“Through here,” Óin said, and they took a southward passage to where the miners picked and scraped at the worked-out diggings. Sometimes an emerald or a decent vein of iron-ore was discovered, but such an occurrence was becoming rarer. The seams generally ran down towards the sea, and no Dwarf would continue digging with the danger of flooding ever-present.

“Uncle Óin?” said Gimli eventually.

“Hmm?”

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

Óin glanced down at Gimli. The lad’s face was still drawn in a ferocious scowl, but there was a fearful quaver in his voice. “I don’t rightly know, my boy,” he said. “But I do know that no Dwarf, ghost or not, would hurt a little lad like you.”

Gimli’s bright head whipped up. “I’m not little! I’m a big Dwarrow now, Mum said so! That’s why Gimrís gets all my things!”

“Oh, now that’s a fib,” Óin said, and he poked the little chest. “Who got a toy axe only the other day? I know it weren’t Gimrís.”

Gimli beamed. “I hit Dad in the leg with it, and he said all sorts o’ bad words! It was _brilliant!”_

Óin had to look up to stop his laugh from escaping. “Don’t you dare go repeating any o’ them now. And you shouldn’t hit people, Gimli.”

“But he told me to!” Gimli complained, and he kicked at a rock. “Don’t see how you can go blaming me when Dad _told_ me to come at him wi’ my axe. Sure surprised him!”

“I’ll bet you did.” Óin grinned into the darkness. His nephew was already showing signs of what was sure to be an extraordinary talent, and Óin was so proud he could burst. “Ah, here we are!”

The small group of miners looked up, their helmets glinting in the light of the dangling oil-light hanging from the central beam. “Óin!” said one, and then he coughed loudly. “Sure good to see you. Grer’s done his back in, and Hrekar’s gashed his leg.”

“How’s that black lung o’ yers, Birin?” Óin said sternly. The miner shrugged.

“Still black, I guess. I ain’t stopped coughing, anyway. Hello, who’s this?”

Gimli had tucked himself against Óin’s leg, but he stepped out when the miner peered down at him. “Gimli son of Glóin, at your service,” he said, and then he craned back to look at Óin. “Did I do it right?”

“Absolutely perfect,” Óin said, and ruffled Gimli’s fiery hair. “Now, remember what I told you!”

“Yes, Uncle Óin,” said Gimli obediently, and he immediately sat down against a wall and stared all around him with huge brown eyes, taking it all in.

Óin carefully tended to the miners, some of whom were beginning to show signs of the same black-lung that Birin suffered from. The dirt got into their lungs and infected there, but most of the miners didn’t stop as they had no other way of supporting their families. It made Óin grit his teeth a lot and thank Mahal that Glóin’s clever fiscal brain had slowly dragged their family out of such poverty.

“Leg’s infected,” he told Hrekar. “I know it’s not easy t’ keep it clean down here, but wrap it good and give it a try anyway. Pretty sure you don’t want to lose it.”

Hrekar blanched. “Right.”

Grer had to stop working, as he could not lift nor climb with his back in such poor condition. The Dwarrow had tears in his eyes as Óin told him, and he bowed his head.

Then a pitter of little boots told Óin that Gimli had approached. “Here,” he said, holding up his hand. In it was his beloved toy axe.

Grer gave the little boy a puzzled look, and then he turned to Óin. “What,” he began.

“Here,” Gimli insisted, and he shoved the axe into the miner’s stomach. “Maybe you can sell it?”

Grer’s hands closed over the axe, and he looked a bit lost. “Thank you, lad,” he said faintly.

Gimli smiled up at him, his eyes sparkling in the darkness. “I like it down here. Maybe you can show me stuff when I’m bigger, an’ I’ll be a miner too? That way you don’t have to feel bad that I gave you my axe.”

Grer blinked, and then he smiled back at the boy. “Aye, I could do that. Thank you, Gimli son of Glóin.”

The miner hobbled away, his back hunched over the toy axe between his hands. Óin looked down at Gimli. “That was a very kind thing you just did,” he said softly.

“He’s afraid o’ being hungry,” said Gimli, shrugging. “I didn’t really need my axe. Dad can always show me how t’ make another - if he’s not cross anymore about me whacking him in the shins.”

Óin bent and hoisted the little boy in his arms. “How about _I_ show you how to make one, Azaghîth?” he said. “We could make it together, what do you say?”

Gimli’s arms wrapped around Óin’s neck. “Yes, please!”

…

“ _My uncle…”_

_…is often not there, too burdened by simmering rage and the cares of his people._

_…has been gone for twenty-five years chasing down a dangerous dream, no word, no sign, not a thing._

_…is on a terrifying quest into the very heart of darkness, and may never see his nephew again._

_“…is the best uncle in the whole wide_ world!”

_…_

“Rarrrgh! I’m a terrible ferocious Troll come to eat you!”

Gimizh shrieked loudly and scurried away as Gimli tramped down the corridor, stamping his boots and growling. “Trolls like to eat little dwarflings, you know,” he rumbled, and opened a cupboard to reveal the giggling, fidgeting shape of his nephew curled amongst his sister’s neatly folded linens. “This one looks to be a fine snack!”

“Nooooo!” Gimizh said, laughing and hollering simultaneously. He batted at Gimli’s hands as he reached for him, and then shrieked again as Gimli picked up the little boy and pretended to chomp at his neck. “Uncle _Gimli,_ noooo! Ah, that tickles, stop!”

“I’m afraid Trolls don’t listen to little Dwarflings,” Gimli told the boy solemnly. “Especially when they’re dinner. Ach, but this dinner smells like a warg’s rear-end! I don’t want it to make me sick, do I?”

Gimizh laughed and tugged at Gimli’s braids. “I’d make a Troll sick, I would, I would!”

“I don’t doubt it,” Gimli said, and he nuzzled the boy’s bare face with his bearded one. “Well, there’s only one thing for it. This dinner needs to be cleaned. Perhaps it should sit in a pot of soup?”

Gimizh’s eyes widened. “No! I dun wanna bath!”

“But then I won’t be able to eat you, little dinner,” Gimli said, poking the boy’s belly. “You don’t want me to go hungry, do you?”

Gimizh nodded enthusiastically.

“Well, that’s plain rude,” Gimli said, and grinned. Then he hefted the dwarfling over his shoulder and ignored his squeals. “Thankfully I’m a terrible Troll, and I can do what I please with my dinner regardless of how it feels. That’s the beauty of being a Troll, you see.”

Gimizh hollered and howled all the way down the hall. Gimrís poked her head out of her workroom, but upon seeing them she rolled her eyes. “I thought someone was slaughtering a pig,” she said dryly.

“I’m a Troll,” he said cheerfully. “And this is dinner. I’m going to wash it before I eat it.”

“I’ve been telling you that you’re a Troll for decades,” Gimrís said, smiling. “After you’ve washed your dinner, get it ready for bed would you?”

“I suppose I could always eat it tomorrow,” Gimli agreed, letting his fingers wander to Gimizh’s ribs and tickling him. The little boy laughed and wriggled over his shoulder, gasping against Gimli’s back. “He’s not very big, after all. I should most likely wait until he is a little bigger.”

“I am, I am big!” said Gimizh breathlessly. “I’m bigger’n Balin, anyways, and his Pa is _reaaaaaally_ big.”

“So he is,” Gimli said, turning back towards the bathing room. “Perhaps I shouldn’t eat you. Perhaps I should go eat Balin?”

“Noooo,” Gimizh said, and he wrapped his arms around Gimli’s arm and clung tightly. “No, _I’m_ your dinner, you’re _my_ Troll. Don’t eat Balin!”

Gimli shifted the boy to sit him in his arms, pushing a lock of dark red hair away from the bare little cheeks. “I wouldn’t do any such thing,” he said. “Now, come on, dinner, let’s clean you up.”

Gimizh looked torn between satisfaction that Gimli would not go play with Balin, and disgruntlement at the prospect of a bath. “Oh, all _right,_ ” he said in a very put-upon voice, and wrinkled his nose. “But you have to stay with me, Uncle Gimli.”

Gimli laid a messy kiss upon the soft cheek. “Wouldn’t dream of bein’ anywhere else, my nidoyel.”

…

Fíli and Kíli died protecting him, following him with utter loyalty as always.

Gimli waited for an uncle who would never return.

Gimizh looks to the horizon.

…

END

**Author's Note:**

> Azaghîth – Little warrior  
> Akhûnîth – young man  
> Unday – the greatest boy  
> Nidoyel – boy of all boys  
> Namadul – sister’s son  
> Nadad - brother


End file.
